I considered the long expanse of the weekend, and what I would do with myself. It occurred to me how much work simplifies life by putting free time into perspective (yet Roth said, in one of his books, there is no real perspective, and that is an idea perhaps worth looking into. I might also add that whether time is free is also a matter of perspective). This Intimate Thought came to me because it was, or would be, I’m not sure of the proper tense, my last weekend of true unemployment. No, it wasn’t truly my last weekend of unemployment, but within the confines of this narrative, as far as I know, it was.
I walked to an old fashioned diner with Lewis for breakfast and had biscuits with gravy, one of my favorite southern delicacies. It was a pleasant start to the day. One of the servers complimented me on my glasses.
It was cold outside. After I returned to the apartment, I didn’t feel disposed towards leaving it again. I don’t know what it was, but suddenly I felt out of sorts. Wait, I think an Intimate Thought is coming. I wasn’t too out of sorts, but out of sorts. But I am rarely actually in my sorts, when I think about it, and I think about it a lot. It seems to me that part of what keeps me going is a constant sorting out (of my sorts) and then a resorting, etc., to find the best assortment. I like the word “sort” in the context of this locution, it says so much more than what I first intended.
I spent the day watching movies and writing, I forgot what else, the time passed.
On Sunday I also stayed in, doing some writing here and there. Again it escapes me what else I did. My next post will be an hour-by-hour account of a day. In the late afternoon towards sunset I felt drowsy sitting in front of my computer so I decided to take a walk. My street is on a rising slope and it seems to be headed towards some vantage point. Forgive the shifts in tense here, sometimes I’m not sure if what I’m looking for is the past or the present. I wanted to confirm this suspicion, about the vantage point I mean, and see what it was all about. I followed it up, took a turn, and discovered a small street that circled around a hill. On the top of it there was a small park called “Lover’s park,” which is really just the top of a hill flattened out with a some electrical machinery fenced in (this kind of thing always seems to turn up in what would otherwise be a picturesque scene, like a big red pimple on clear, smooth skin). From the top I could see downtown Nashville. The sun was setting. In the opposite direction I looked at the orange glow on the horizon. There were in fact some lovers holding hands, talking and enjoying the view. I heard a woman say, “can I bring up something disagreeable?” I liked her use of that word, ‘disagreeable,’; it’s something I would say. Her tone suggested that it actually wasn’t disagreeable, whatever it was. I didn’t find out, though you know I tried. I felt at peace, momentarily. Then quickly I felt uncomfortable since everyone else there was a couple. The following thoughts occurred to me: People seem to persecute themselves so relentlessly and mercilessly for being single. Then they persecute the couples too, for their stinking complacency; or better yet, they predict the relationship’s inevitable ruin, another form of persecution. I strolled down the hill back home, happily, happily.